


Morphine and Baseball Bats

by coffeeandfeathers



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to do this tag thing man, I write so many of these I'm sorry friends, Matt gets patched up after some serious self neglect, Post Season 1, Sharing a Bed, Whump, also slightly drugged up Matt?, concussion, it's not too shippy but if you squint I guess, just read it if you like my other stuff i guess, medical whump, mention of indepth medical procedures, mention of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandfeathers/pseuds/coffeeandfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three days of torture, Matt stumbles into Claire's apartment with a concussion. She administers first aid and frozen vegetables. Post Season 1.</p><p>I always end stories with characters falling asleep? I don't know why that seems like a good ending to a h/c fic I just like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morphine and Baseball Bats

Three months after Fisk had been put away and nearly one since she’d returned to Hell’s Kitchen, Claire Temple woke up at 3am with the supreme urge to pee. She got out of bed, carefully toeing over the baseball bat she kept within arm’s reach ever since her abduction, and felt her way down the hall to the bathroom. Not wanting to completely wreck her night vision, she kept the light off in the bathroom and washed her hands in the dark before hearing something shift in the living room.

            _Oh fuck no._ Claire’s breath caught in her throat and she made for her bedroom to retrieve the bat before stepping out into the hallway with it at her shoulder, ready to beat the shit out of anyone who dared invade her apartment. She’d been unprepared before but this time she was ready to acquaint someone’s face with the aluminum Louisville Slugger regardless of their intent. Trying to maintain the element of surprise, Claire stepped out into the darkened living room only to notice that one of the windows out to the fire escape had been opened.

            _Fuck. Fuck shit fuck._ Claire tightened her grip on the bat. “Whoever you are, I’m armed!” she yelled into the darkness, holding the bat out in front of her like a saber. “I will fuck you up I swear to God.”

            She didn’t hear the groan from the floor until she took three more steps, still brandishing her weapon, and tripped over something large and hard and breathing on the carpet. The shock sent waves of panic through Claire’s arms and she swung at the thing, the bat making contact with her coffee table as the figure squirmed underneath it.

            “Claire.” Her name sounded funny, like it was coming from underwater, and Claire jabbed wildly under the table, hoping to meet flesh.

            “I don’t know who the fuck sent you but I swear to God I will send you back to whatever shithole you came from with no face.”

            “Claire.” That voice again, slurring her name. “It’s me.”

            “Who’s me?” Claire’s heart was pounding in her chest.

            “Matt. Daredevil. Whatever you wanna call me.”

            “Jesus FUCKING… Matt?!” Claire stopped jabbing and went for the light switch. After her eyes adjusted, she took in the unmasked dumbshit of Hell’s Kitchen lying under her coffee table, breathing hard.

            “Fucking Christ, Matt, you almost gave me a goddamn heart attack! I was this close to beating your face in.”

            Matt just groaned and closed his eyes, his mask discarded a few feet from where he lay. He’d put the new suit through the wringer; the red material was stained in dirt and black blood and the black parts were almost grey from damage.

            “What are you doing here? You couldn’t call first?” Claire’s heart was calming down, but the fire in her blood refused to cool.

            “I…” Matt coughed and rolled onto his side away from her, curling up in a ball on the rug. “It was an emergency. I didn’t know where else to go.” He kept slurring, mixing words together like he’d forgotten how to speak.

            “Are you drunk?”

            “No. Hit my head.” He coughed again and it was then that Claire saw the dark red stain that his hair had left on the floor.

            “Oh God, Matt.” She knelt next to him and he pulled away from her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

            “Your apartment was the closest. I just… needed a place to get some rest. Just a couple of minutes. Then I was gonna go.” He kept pausing, trying to think of what to say, and Claire helped him squirm out from under the table before cupping the back of his neck in her hand to examine the wound. It was nearly a day old, his hair thick with old blood and half dried scabs, and Matt winced when she adjusted his neck to get a better look.

            “How’d you get this?”

            He took a deep breath. “Blunt force trauma. I dunno what it was. They got the rest of me pretty bad too.”

            “Shit, okay. Let’s get you out of this suit and onto the couch.” Now that panic mode had ceased, Claire’s training was beginning to come back to her. Matt moaned in response, curling into himself again.

            “I’m okay. Just needed a couple seconds of rest. I need to go.” He pushed himself into a vaguely upright position before the color drained from his face.

            “Claire.” It sounded like he was trying desperately to swallow.

            “Yeah?”

            “I think I’m gonna be…” he pressed one hand to his mouth, the other to his stomach, and Claire shot up.

            “Okay, okay, hold on!” She sprinted to the kitchen to retrieve the trashcan before he could ruin her carpet further and all but threw it between his knees before he started gagging. Matt’s body convulsed, but nothing came up except bile and saliva tinged with blood and after a few minutes of dry heaving, he swallowed hard and pushed the trashcan away.

            “Sorry.” His voice was thick and sour.

            “It’s okay.” Claire ran her hand over his back, though she wasn’t sure if he could feel it through the suit. “You’re concussed.”

            “No… no, it’s just…” Matt’s hand wandered to the back of his head and he winced when his fingers probed the wound.

            “It’s a concussion. You’re slurring your words, your coordination is way off, you’re nauseated. Those symptoms after head trauma usually indicate a concussion, and with all the shit you’ve been pulling lately, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

            “I’m okay,” Matt said, but the way he curled up onto himself with both arms wrapped around his middle indicated otherwise.

            “You’re not. C’mon, let’s get the suit off and I’ll take a look at you.”

            “I can’t make you do that.”

            “Why not? You won’t go to a hospital and with head trauma like that it’s a miracle you’re still conscious. Let me help you.”

            Matt made a noncommittal grunt that Claire took as an affirmative and she set about removing the suit. She’d helped him before, after she’d returned to Hell’s Kitchen, and after tangling with the suit more than once, she was pretty sure she’d figured out how it worked. The top half came off in one piece like a suit of armor and the bottom was two pieces that joined at Matt’s hips and sacrum. She worked the boots off first, surprised Matt was still sitting up.

            “Please tell me you don’t fight crime commando,” she said, and Matt snorted.

            “No.”

            “No you won’t tell me you don’t fight crime commando or no you don’t fight crime commando?”

            “No, I don’t fight crime commando.”

            “Well thank god for that. Lift your arms for me?” Matt obeyed and Claire removed the top half of the suit, careful to keep from brushing his head as she did so.

            “Jesus _Christ_ , Matt. Did they use you for rugby practice?” His torso was riddled with bruises spanning from his back over his shoulders to his chest and stomach, each one larger than a golf ball. Matt shrugged.

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Is someone after you? Should I be worried?”

            “No. No one left to come. Left ‘em at the police station.”

            “Let me guess. Chained to the handrail?”

            Matt snorted again. “Something like that.”

            “Did they do this?”

            Matt shook his head slowly as if ridding his ears of water. “Yesterday.”

            “You’ve been out since yesterday?”

            “No. Friday.”

            “You’ve been out since _Friday_? Didn’t you go home at least for a little while? Get some sleep, put some food in your body?”

            Matt shook his head again, wincing. “No time.”

            “No time to feed yourself? God, no wonder you don’t have anything to throw up.”

            “Slows me down.” He meant food. Claire shook her head.

            “I’m shaking my head at you.”

            “I figured.”

            The bruises continued down his lower back and legs until it was obvious he’d been beaten with more than just fists. Wrenches, maybe, Claire thought. Or a baseball bat like hers.

            “I’m about to put you on ice, you know that?”

            Matt winced. “That might be nice. I don’t feel so great.”

            Claire rolled her eyes. “The understatement of the century. C’mon, let’s get you on the couch and I’ll get you some clothes, okay?”

            “Thank you, Claire.” He always sounded sincere when he said that, like he really meant it instead of saying it out of a sense of obligation. Claire’s chest warmed despite her frustration.

            “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, up you get.”

            With some difficulty, Claire pulled Matt unsteadily to his feet and half-dragged him to the couch. “Don’t go to sleep yet, okay? I want to at least get you dressed first.”

            “Isn’t that the opposite of how this is supposed to go?” Matt asked, but Claire had already retreated into her bedroom and emerged with a clean t-shirt and a pair of old men’s pajama pants, as well as her medical kit.

            “Arms up,” she said, and Matt obeyed, docile as a ragdoll. _He must really be hurting_ , she thought. _He’s never been this compliant in his life._

“Now let’s take a look at that head.” She snapped on a pair of blue gloves and sat on the couch next to him, pushing his dirty hair back to examine the wound. Matt gasped in pain when her fingers found a piece of glass lodged in his scalp and Claire felt around for more, judging their location by Matt’s reaction.

            “Feels like someone smashed a bottle over your head.”

            “That’s what cracked my helmet, I think.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his discarded mask, the back of which had been shattered.

            “Maybe you should invest in a sturdier helmet.”

            “He hit me a bunch of times before he cracked it.”

            “You should still get whoever made you the suit to build you a better mask. Your head is kind of important.”

            “I know.”

            “I’m gonna have to take this glass out. It’s not gonna be fun. You want me to give you a shot of morphine before I do?”

            Matt turned, his brow furrowed. “Where’d you get morphine?”

            “Don’t worry about it, okay? I figured you’d be coming back around so I made a connection. No need to fret.”

            “Isn’t that illegal?”

            “Isn’t running around in the middle of the night in a costume beating up bad guys illegal?”

            Matt exhaled. “Tomato tomahto.”

            “I’ll get the morphine.” Claire got up from her seat on the couch and rummaged around in her bag before producing the kit. “This’ll make things easier but your stomach probably won’t like it.”

            “There’s nothing in me to puke. I think I’ll be okay.”

            “You should eat some applesauce or crackers at least. It’ll help settle things down a bit.”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “Well that’s not a good sign, seeing as you haven’t eaten in three days.”

            “I’m just not.”

            “Well if you want that glass out of your head you better listen to what I tell you to do, okay?’

            Matt paused for a minute and Claire watched his hand migrate to his abdomen, rubbing back and forth as if to ease the emptiness. “Okay.”

            “There we go. Listening to the nurse is always a good choice.”

            Matt shrugged, listening for Claire’s footsteps as she returned from the kitchen, boxes crinkling in her arms.

            “Okay, I’ve got applesauce and Saltines and I’ll make you rice soaked in chicken stock if you’re up for it. Plus a couple bottles of water. I want you to drink at least two before I dope you up.”

            Matt shrugged again, so Claire opened a container of applesauce and put it in his hands along with a spoon. “Eat,” she said before returning to the kit. “Slowly.”

            Matt, too addled to argue, lifted the spoon to his mouth. After three days of tasting nothing but knuckles and his own blood, the applesauce might as well have been ambrosia.

            “SLOWLY, Matt.”

            “Okay, okay.” Matt swallowed and licked the spoon. “Thanks.”

            “Don’t mention it.”

            “Can I have another one?”

            “You can have as much as you want. They’re on the coffee table.”

            Matt felt around for the box before opening another container. He was starting to feel a little better. Something about the smell of Claire’s apartment, the warm clothes, the crinkle of the med kit, it all made him feel safe in some naïve way.

            “That helping settle your stomach at all?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Drink some water.”

            “Okay.” Matt felt around for a bottle and lifted it to his lips, the cold numbing his aching throat.

            “I’ll get you some sprite or something a little later, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “You ready for the morphine?” Claire sat down next to him on the couch.

            “I thought I had to drink two bottles of water.”

            “You weren’t fast enough. Besides, you think I’m gonna let you quit eating after I’ve got you all nice and complacent? Not a chance. If you can keep the applesauce down I’m going to get some soup into you, or at least a little rice.”

            Matt’s stomach ached in longing at the thought. The applesauce had awakened the hunger he’d kept dormant for three days. “Sounds good.”

            “Maybe even some ice cream if you don’t give me any trouble.”    

            “That sounds even better.”

            Claire smiled. “There we go. Can I have your arm please?”

            Matt offered her his forearm, the inside of his elbow up, and Claire tied an elastic band around his upper arm to help find a vein before injecting the morphine. Matt didn’t feel it right away, he was too focused on the pinch at the crook of his arm, but when he did it rushed over him all at once.

            “You doing okay?” Claire finished the injection and disposed of the needle. Matt nodded, a little drowsy, then winced as his head throbbed.

            “That should kick in any minute. In the meantime, let’s take a look at your head. Then I’ll get you some ice for the swelling, okay?”

            Matt nodded again and Claire put on a new pair of gloves before examining the mess.

            “I’m going to pick the glass out with tweezers. It’s not going to be fun.”

            “I know.” She was being so deliberate, telling him exactly what was going on as if he couldn’t feel it. But ever since he’d been hit, his senses felt like they were slightly out of sync with the rest of his body. He’d barely been able to find Claire’s place, much less go after the drug lord whose cronies had tortured him. It was nice to get his bearings somewhere safe.

            Claire removed the glass in silence, dabbing Matt’s bleeding scalp with a wad of paper towels, and Matt sighed once she’d pulled the last piece out and blotted at his head.

            “You won’t need stitches, but I’m gonna disinfect this mess and put some gauze on it. You’re going to have a bump on the back of your head for a while.”

            “I know.”

            “You’re normally not this quiet.”

            “I know.” In truth, he hurt too much to talk. His head felt like it was about to split in two and the nausea, briefly satiated, was starting to come back with a vengeance. The thought of eating anything more made his guts squirm and he considered just curling up on Claire’s couch and staying there for the rest of his natural life.

            “Probably best. Concussions heal the fastest when you rest and don’t tire yourself out.” Claire wiped disinfectant across his head and Matt bit his tongue to keep from hissing.

            “I can tire myself out by talking?”

            “Mentally. I’d tell you not to look at books or computer screens for a while but I don’t think that’s a problem with you.”

            Matt sighed. “Yeah, guess not.”

            “Even so, you need rest. If you haven’t eaten in three days, am I right to assume you haven’t slept either?”

            _Aside from the twenty minutes on your floor?_ “Not much.”

            “Okay. Let’s get some ice on your head and those bruises and then we’ll go from there.”

            “Okay.” Matt’s hand drifted to his middle, where his stomach was twisted up so tight he was afraid he’d be sick again.

            “Okay, I’ve got a couple of ice packs and we can cover the rest in frozen vegetables, okay?”

            “Frozen…?” Matt felt Claire press what felt like a bag of peas to the back of his head and the pain started to dissipate.

            “Frozen vegetables stay cold longer. Is your stomach bothering you again?”

            She’d noticed. “No.”

            “Cause I have some tablets you can take to make the nausea go away so you can actually eat something. You look like you’ve lost a good bit of weight.”

            He had. In the last few weeks every ounce of subcutaneous fat had been stripped from him by a combination of vigorous exercise and relying on one meal a day to keep him going. He could count his ribs on a good day, his stomach relaxed into a concave shape under his sternum. Foggy had started looking at him differently, he could feel it, and it made him feel like maybe thinning out hadn’t been the best option.

            _Foggy. Fuck._

Claire must have read his mind. “Hey, quick question. I’m only asking because I know there will be consequences from both of them if I don’t. Do Karen and Foggy know where you are? Or rather, where you’ve been for the last three days?”

            Guilt rose like a wave of bile in Matt’s stomach. “I called Foggy on Friday, told him I was going to be gone all weekend. I think he knew what I meant.”

            “He’s not dumb, Matt. He’s probably worried sick about you. But it’s almost four am and he’s probably fast asleep. We’ll call him tomorrow.”

            “No.” Matt’s guts were starting to throb. He couldn’t handle Foggy’s disappointment and fear and resentment. It would be better if he just went into work and pretended that he was okay.

            “Yes. He deserves to know, Matt.”

            Matt sank back into the couch, rubbing his stomach with the hand not holding the bag of peas to his head. “I’m not in the best shape for talking right now.

            “You’ll be better in the morning. Right now I don’t really trust you to open your mouth. You’re forbidden from puking on my carpet.”

            He laughed, then swallowed hard, tasting pennies. “I won’t.”

            “Open your mouth.” Claire placed a tablet on his tongue. “Don’t chew it; just wait for it to dissolve. Then I want you to drink some more water.”

            “Yes ma’am.” The tablet fizzled on Matt’s tongue and he sat still while Claire applied ice packs and various bags of frozen vegetables to his hot, bruised skin. It felt like he’d stepped into a cold shower, but without the stinging pain.

            “What’s Foggy’s number?”

            “Claire…”

            “What’s Foggy’s number, Matt? He’s going to wonder why you can barely stand tomorrow, or why you won’t be going into work tomorrow at all for that matter.”

            “I’m fine.”

            “You are the complete opposite of fine. Give me the number or I’ll dope you up until you have no choice.”

            Matt sighed and gave her the number. He was already feeling the effects of the first shot and another would lay him out flat for a good eighteen hours. “Why did you want the number now?”

            “So I won’t have to wake you up to get it tomorrow. You’re going to take a nice long nap after we get some food into you.”

            “I really should just go home.”

            “How’re you going to get there? There aren’t any cabs around at this hour.”

            “I’ll walk.”

            “You can barely stand.”

            “I’m okay.”

            “Stop saying that. You know it’s not true.”

            Matt fell silent, focusing instead on the hot pounding in the back of his head. It felt as if someone had jammed a railroad spike through his skull. He leaned against the peas, startling when Claire moved closer to him and pressed a bag of what felt like broccoli against his chest.

            “Matt?”

            “Claire.” He was starting to feel the effects of the morphine. His tongue lay useless in his mouth and every word felt like a supreme effort.

            “I’m gonna cook something, okay? Drink a little more water.” She pressed the bottle into his hand.

            “Okay.” Matt took a sip, closing his eyes.

            “If you want to lie down, you’re more than welcome. It’ll be a minute before I’m done.”

            “Okay.” He drank the rest of the bottle in three easy swallows, then reached around until he found the packet of Saltines. “Should I wait to eat these?”

            “No, go ahead. It can’t hurt and they’ll soak up some of the acid in your stomach.”

            Matt retrieved a cracker and lazily followed Claire in his mind as she got up from the couch and made for the kitchen. He ate another, then cracked open a second bottle of water. His brain might as well have been full of Jello.

            “Aren’t I not supposed to sleep with a concussion?” The thought of shouting that to Claire exhausted him, so he said it to himself before repositioning himself into a slightly more horizontal position on the couch, burying his face in a throw pillow. He adjusted the various bags of vegetables accordingly and balanced the peas on top of his head before pulling himself against the pillow with both arms and closing his eyes.

            _Don’t fall asleep. Just meditate or something. You can meditate lying down._ He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as the bruises on his chest complained. _Focus._

The next thing he knew, someone was rubbing his back in long, even strokes, careful to avoid the bruising on his sides. His skin woke up first, then a few of his muscles, and someone made a little noise of half pleasure, half pain. Maybe it was him, he wasn’t entirely sure.

            “Matt?” _Claire? What’s Claire doing here?_ His brain was dragging itself from the murk of sleep, struggling to piece together the events of the last few hours.

            “Matt, it’s Claire. You’ve slept for about an hour. You need to wake up and eat something.”

            _Eat something?_ It felt as if he’d been wrenched from the deepest sleep of his life. Someone made another noise, this one a little more belligerent.

            “Matt.” Claire’s hands moved to his shoulders, rubbing deep into the sore muscles, and Matt groaned. “C’mon. I know it’s hard. Waking up with a concussion is always hard, but I need you to get up.”

            With the most effort he’d ever put into anything in his life, Matt pushed himself up off the pillow, dragging a trail of saliva with him. He dragged the back of his wrist across his face, mumbling an apology Claire probably couldn’t hear.

            “It’s okay. C’mon, sit up.” Something heavy and wet slithered down his back and he shivered.

            “That’s the broccoli… oops, and the peas.” Claire removed the offending vegetables and slowly brought Matt out of his cocoon of frozen veggies and into a vaguely upright position.

            “All right, here we go. I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?

            _Why would you do that?_ Matt wanted nothing more than to lie back down and die.

            “What’s your name?”

            His jaw didn’t seem to want to work and his mouth tasted like sand mixed with blood. “Matthew Murdock.”

            “Good. Where are we?”

            _Good question._ “Hell’s Kitchen?”                               

            “I would also have accepted ‘Claire Temple’s gorgeous and tastefully furnished apartment,’ but that works. What’s your best friend’s name?”

            Matt’s brain had slowly begun to flicker on. “Foggy Nelson. But I also said Karen Page if she asks.”

            Claire laughed. “Okay, good. You’re not permanently ruined.”

            “I dunno. I feel pretty ruined.”

            “You hungry? I made some soup.”

            “Please. Yes.”

            Claire got up, removing her hand from Matt’s back, and he immediately missed it. The soreness was coming back to his muscles, but it was nowhere near the pain he’d felt when he’d entered the apartment. The morphine must have been working. He kneaded his eye with the heel of his hand and yawned.

            “Here you go.” Claire pushed something warm and ceramic into his hands. “I hope you don’t mind macaroni noodles.”

            He didn’t. In fact, the smell emanating from the bowl made him want to cry in earnest. “You didn’t have to cook. You could have just heated something up.”

            “And give you a hot cup of sodium after three days of nothing? No thanks. Plus I’m awake now and once I’m up, I’m up.”

            “You must be tired.” Matt wanted to gulp down the whole bowl in one swallow, but he settled for bringing the spoon to his mouth as fast as possible.

            “Slow down, I’m not going to take it from you. And I’m a nurse, I’m always tired. Not nearly as tired as you must be, though.”

            “Hm.” Matt didn’t want to talk anymore. His mind was focused completely on the bowl in his hands and the warmth sliding comfortably into his stomach. Claire’s hand returned to his back, stroking up and down over his shirt.

            “You can go back to sleep in my bed once you eat. Doesn’t look like your concussion is ready to kill you just yet.”

            Matt swallowed. “That’s okay. I’ll stay out here.”

            “You sure? I was planning on keeping you warm.” He could hear her grin through her words.

            “That sounds nice.”

            “But I mean if you want the couch, that’s fine too.”

            “No, no. Bed is good.” The spoon hit the bottom of the bowl with a clink and Matt licked it before lifting the bowl to his lips and swallowing the last of the broth.

            “You want some more?”

            “Yes, please.”

            He gulped down the second bowl of soup in silence, warmth spreading to his cold fingers and toes, and after he’d finished Claire helped him to his feet and led him into her room.

            “You still hurting?” She asked, her fingers pulling back the comforter and skating across the sheets.

            “A little. Morphine helped.” Matt was starting to feel fuzzy again. Claire had a thick memory foam mattress that had no business being as comfortable as it was and it gave under his weight. He felt Claire lie down next to him and drape an arm over his shoulders.

            “You don’t mind being the little spoon?”

            “No.” He felt her pull him back against her chest, her breath warm on his neck, and closed his eyes.

            “Matt?”

            “Mm.”

            “I’m still gonna call Foggy. He’s gonna be _pissed._ ”

            Matt sighed. “I know. Let me recharge for a minute before you do.”

            “Okay.” After a few minutes of silence, Claire’s breathing slowed into a soft rhythm that reminded him of a ship rocking back and forth on the tide. He matched it, listening to his ribs creak with each breath.

            “Claire?” She didn’t respond. She must have been tired enough to fall back asleep after all. Matt let himself sink into the mattress, listening to her breathe, and dropped off into a quiet, dreamless sleep.


End file.
